


i don't want that for you

by nightmmares



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Soft Boys, Upton House (The Magnus Archives), jon making dumb decisions, mostly angst tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:14:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27155765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightmmares/pseuds/nightmmares
Summary: Jon tries feebly to cover the letter, but Martin’s already snatched it away. This had been much easier when Martin was asleep. Jon forces himself to watch Martin’s face as he reads, as he digests what the man he loves has written. Angry splotches of red are rising to his cheeks, and his voice is no longer soft, “What is this? You were—you were what? Just going toleaveme here in the middle of the night?”Jon needs to return to the apocalypse. Martin doesn't have to.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 7
Kudos: 146





	i don't want that for you

Upton House is meant to be an oasis. It is, really, to those who have not been chewed up and spit out by so many fear entities that there are only shreds of a human left. Jon knows the moment they first wake up in an oversized, plush bed that he is in trouble. He doesn’t sleep—hasn’t slept in months upon months. It’s not something that his body had needed nor something it would probably ever need again.

Jon is tense from the first moment of awareness. The process of waking up is unfamiliar, stunts his thinking in a way that is almost terrifying. There is the absence of pressure in his mind that once would have been relieving but now is only a persistent ache that he is missing something vital. Jon is ready to spring out of bed and hurl his way back into the apocalypse.

Until he catches sight of Martin. Martin curled up next to him, soft face smushed against the pillow and hair pressed the wrong way. Martin, the only thing that has kept Jon going, his anchor in the ocean of terror and knowledge and power that had overtaken him. Jon can’t remember a time when Martin looked so peaceful. It’s not even that he looks particularly angelic or happy—there aren’t lines of tension in his face or that gaunt look haunting under his eyes.

Jon sighs, soft, trying to will himself to relax. It doesn’t matter that Jon knows staying here is a bad idea, that they are in danger. They are always in danger—they can afford to be in this place for a bit longer if it means helping Martin.

Jon is flat on his back, head turned to face Martin. Martin is on his stomach, one arm cradling the pillow under his head, facing Jon. Jon watches him for a few moments, studies the way his body contracts and expands as he breathes, the twitch in the column of his throat as he dreams. He’s not sure how much time he wastes doing that. Eventually he murmurs, “Martin.”

Martin doesn’t stir immediately. Jon continues to murmur his name until the man begins to shift, his eyes blinking open blearily. There is such a soft, unconscious, sweet smile that wakes Martin’s lips as he registers Jon and murmurs back, “Jon.”

Something grips Jon’s heart and squeezes, and he doesn’t respond for a moment. Martin is still half-asleep, not really caught up to their situation. He stretches, uncurling the arm under his pillow and reaching out so his hand brushes against Jon’s shoulder. “Martin,” Jon finally repeats, and he can’t help the delighted uptick in his voice, “Do you plan on waking up any time soon?”

Martin throws his other hand over his face, rubbing at his eyes. Jon’s not really sure what he expects Martin to do. Maybe bolt up in terror or freeze when he realizes where they are—anything is possible. He does not expect Martin to sigh, voice still sleep-addled, “I love you.”

Jon has to swallow down the lump in his throat. He’s not—he’s never been able to have this, never let himself dare of thinking about it. Being loved, that’s still relatively new to Jon in the grand scheme of things. He rolls onto his side, clasping Martin’s hand and squeezing it, “I love you too.”

Martin smiles again, and Jon can see the exact moment he wakes up. His voice drops, “Jon.”

“I know, Martin,” Jon nods.

“What—did we _pass_ out? How did we even get in here?” Martin rattles off, readjusting himself until he’s sitting against the soft headboard, looking around cautiously, “Who’s _clothes_ are these?”

“I don’t know,” Jon admits, words that feel unfamiliar on his tongue. “If I could hazard a guess, I’d say that we’re somewhere the eye can’t reach, though I can’t imagine how.”

“Well, that’s a good thing at least,” Martin says, and Jon almost flinches. He stops himself from telling Martin that it is actually quite the opposite.

“I don’t know how well I can protect us in here,” Jon says, fingers tightening around Martin’s.

Martin nods, but glances to the door, lips twisted, “I mean…if they wanted to kill us, they could’ve done it already, yeah?”

“I suppose,” Jon offers, though he really doesn’t like where this going.

They sit in the quiet for a few moments before Martin decides, “We should go out there. It can’t be any worse than the literal apocalypse, can it?”

Jon doesn’t trust his voice, so he simply nods.

* * *

Upton House really is beautiful; Jon can at least admit that. It doesn’t mean it doesn’t still make his skin crawl, when he’s got the wherewithal to accept where they are. He wants to leave, is itching for it, _aching._ Martin doesn’t. He doesn’t explicitly say so, but Jon can see it in the slump of his shoulders, the softness of his eyes, the gentleness of his movements. Martin is comfortable here: relaxed, rested, sated—all things Jon stripped away from him the moment he read that damned statement.

So they stay. Some of it is quite nice. Sometimes Jon can force himself not to think about Annabelle Cane and where she may be lurking, or what Elias is doing if he’s realized Jon has gone off the map. Sometimes he simply enjoys being with Martin, the way they might have been if— _if._

Jon thinks of Daisy. He doesn’t think of her in her final moments, with her teeth sinking into his leg. No, he thinks of the quiet times they spent together after she had returned from the Buried. She had let herself waste away, chosen to resist feeding the monstrous part of her that kept herself alive. Jon had envied her resolve, had wondered if he would ever have the dedication to commit to that.

He doesn’t have to wonder anymore. He sees Daisy in the absences of himself, the parts that are beginning to shrink and drift away without the eye to sustain them. He gets lost in his thoughts a lot. Sometimes it hurts—like when he is suddenly consumed with the need to recount every moment of the time he and his assistants had gone for drinks and he’d made a fool of himself talking about some inane thing for far too long. He recalls it all—the smell of the bar, the curve of Tim’s lips as he’d laughed, the sound of Martin’s hushed chuckles, the comforting weight of Sasha’s arm on his shoulder.

He knows Martin notices sometimes: that Jon’s a bit forgetful, a little zoned out, much quieter than he has been in a long, long time. But he doesn’t think Martin really _understands_ what this place is doing to him.

Jon is dying.

He’s not even starving, he’s just… _wilting._

He understands, though, why Daisy had let it go on. He’s doing it for Martin. There is so much that Martin deserves, and this respite is one small thing Jon can let him have, after taking away so much.

They eat real human food and read and relax together. They even dance once to a slow, haunting tune in their “room.” Jon won’t ever admit that he’d clung to Martin’s frame because he was physically weak in the knees rather than metaphorically. Once, in the solitude of the bathroom, Jon cries. He cries because it hurts—dying like this. But he deserves it.

Martin doesn’t really talk about leaving. It’s always, “Eventually,” in a sort of distant way when Salesa asks.

Jon doesn’t have an eventually. It’s been a few weeks and he’s clinging to those little shreds of humanity. Things are getting foggier; he is getting lost in the past for longer periods of time.

Jon watches Martin sleep. _Nobody gets what they deserve here,_ he remembers saying distantly, _they only get what hurts them the most. Even me._ In sleep, it is easier to pretend that Martin won’t be hurt by the absence of Jon. Perhaps, for a while, he would grieve. But Martin had laid Jon to rest once before, would know how to move on. Eventually Martin could be happy, be safe, in this little bubble of the apocalypse.

Leaving Martin would of course be agonizing to Jon, but the pain would be worth it if he knew that Martin was safe. He knows there’s no such thing as safe, really, in this new world, but Martin knows enough to handle himself here.

Jon would have to do it soon, before he lost the ability to carry himself out completely. He would trade one ache for another, and if he’s successful, he’ll even be able to rewrite reality for Martin, one more time.

Jon swallows and shifts slowly, pressing his dry lips to Martin’s temple. There is a small desk in the corner of the room, and it easy enough to find some stationary and a pencil. He sits there for a long while, his heart squeezing tighter with every beat.

_Martin,_

_I know you’ll be angry with me. You can even hate me. As long as you remain safe and whole, it’s worth it. Please understand. I love you, so much so that I could claw my way through inescapable domains of terror to get to you. You can be happy here. You can be safe.  I know that you have gone through more hell at my expense that any human deserves. It doesn’t have to be like that. I don’t want it to be like that. There are so many things I want to give you, that you deserve to be given. I can give you this. I can’t stay here, but I won’t ask you_

“Jon?” Jon jumps at Martin’s half-asleep voice, sat up in bed rubbing his eyes.

All he can think to stutter is, “M-Martin.”

Martin narrows his eyes, rubbing his face, “What are you doing? Why aren’t you in bed?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jon says, and for some reason, that causes tears to spring to his eyes. They burn as he tries to hold them back.

Martin notices. “No, what’s wrong?” He begins to climb out of bed, and Jon tries to shift, to hide his work. “Are you okay?”

“I—” Jon’s voice catches, and he has to look away from Martin, shame beginning to burn at the tips of his fingers.

“Jon…” Martin’s voice is soft as he approaches, “You’re scaring me.” He glances over at the desk, “What’re you writing…?”

Jon tries feebly to cover the letter, but Martin’s already snatched it away. This had been much easier when Martin was asleep. Jon forces himself to watch Martin’s face as he reads, as he digests what the man he loves has written. Angry splotches of red are rising to his cheeks, and his voice is no longer soft, “What is this? You were—you were what? Just going to _leave_ me here in the middle of the night?”

“Martin, I…” he doesn’t have the words anymore. Martin has plenty.

“I can’t—I don’t understand, Jon. I really don’t,” Martin’s voice is sharp, hurt pitching it higher. “All this time we’ve been together, have you just been—been waiting to dump me? I thought—” he has to cut himself off, voice strangling.

“Of course not,” Jon says, and he’s trying to be rational, “I’m in love with you, Martin. Didn’t you read that?”

“I also read the part where you plan on going off into the sunset without me!” Martin bursts, breathing heavily, “I literally woke up to you writing a _goodbye letter!_ You’ve—don’t you have any kind of explanation? Something that—that justifies this?”

Jon looks up at him, “I’m dying, Martin. This place—it’s killing me. I have to go back out there. I _belong_ out there. I made this world; I have to suffer for it. You _don’t.”_

Martin is staring at him, horrified, “You think I would just stay here--?”

“I didn’t want you to feel like you had to come,” Jon blurts. “I know—I know you like it here. Every day we’re here I—I waste away. I didn’t want to ruin this place for you—not after everything.”

“I don’t understand,” Martin repeats, “I really don’t understand why you wouldn’t tell me you were feeling like this—that us staying here is _killing_ you. You didn’t think that would “ruin this place for me”?”

Jon stands, albeit with some effort, closing the distance between them, “It’s going to happen one way or another,” he says softly.

“Excuse me?” Martin splutters, and he stares down at Jon with a face wrecked with tears.

“The eye is keeping me alive,” Jon explains, fingers drifting to tangle with Martin’s. Martin fastens their hands together immediately as if Jon might disappear. “I don’t think I can exist in a world without it. Martin…you’ve said it yourself. The avatars deserve to die. That includes me.”

Martin exhales shakily, horror dawning on his face again, “You thought I meant…?”

Jon shrugs awkwardly, “It’s not wrong.”

“Of course it’s wrong,” Martin says, and suddenly Jon is crushed against his chest. He can feel Martin’s heart pounding rapidly. “Jon, I would never…I _love_ you. All of you. I would do anything for you. I’m sorry—”

Jon cuts him off, “You don’t have to be sorry, Martin. _I’m_ sorry. I dragged us into this mess. I would do anything to get you out of it. I don’t want—I can’t let you be hurt because of me anymore.”

“This isn’t your fault,” Martin insists against his neck, “It isn’t. You don’t deserve to—to suffer just because you can. We got this far because we were together. You said I was your _reason._ Don’t…don’t let me be your reason to hurt yourself.”

Jon’s fingers curl tight around the back of Martin’s shirt, and he let’s himself sink into the embrace. “I’m sorry,” he chokes, “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,” Martin murmurs. He presses a kiss to Jon’s cheek, gentle but wet. “We can do better. We will.”

“I need you to be sure,” Jon says, begging Martin to understand, “You don’t have to come. If you want to stay here—it’s your choice.”

“Jon,” Martin shakes his head, “You’re the _only_ thing I’m sure of.”

This is the sentiment that loosens something in Jon’s chest. He understands completely. Martin finally pulls away, though only a few inches. “Listen, you need to talk to me. If something’s bothering you, if you’re _dying—”_ Martin cuts himself off for a moment, swallowing, “I’m here for you.”

“Okay,” Jon says quietly, “and you’ll do the same?”

“Yes,” Martin assures him, fervently. They stand in the dim light for a few moments, half embracing.

“I love you,” Jon says, letting his head rest against Martin’s chest.

“I love you too,” Martin says, and the words are soft in a way that Jon doesn’t ever want to forget. Martin takes a deep breath, still a bit shuddery and says, “Shall we pack?”


End file.
